


Celestial Bodies

by shiftylinguini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Anal Fingering, Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Blow Jobs, Bonding, First Time, Forced Proximity, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Space Magic, Telepathy-gasms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-07 12:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20309395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: “An astrological anomaly induced bond,” Harry repeats, deadpan, as the Head Healer of the Magical Malfunctions ward finishes announcing his prognosis.“Space magic,” says Draco, tapping long fingers irritably against the arm of his chair. “You’re saying we’ve been zapped by space magic.”The Healer huffs. “That’s rather simplifying things, gentlemen.”





	Celestial Bodies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).

> Written for the Trope "Bonding" for the 2019 H/D Tropes Exchange Fest
> 
> Gracerene, I was so thrilled to create something for you. You are one of my favourite people in fandom, and you give so much ― it was a joy to be able to give you a little something back. This fic is based on an amalgamation of the things you said you liked in your sign up (and...quite a few of the sex things LOL. We have a lot of likes in common!) and I hope this ticks some of your boxes! 
> 
> Big thank you to my alpha/beta and brainstorming pals; your help and hand holding (and kicking me up the bum when necessary LOL) was invaluable, and I think I owe you a fruit basket. 
> 
> Lastly, an enormous, enormous thank you to the mods, Nox and Nerd, for being so accommodating and supportive of my wibbles and requests for a bit of extra time ― I appreciate it so much!!

✹✯✹

“Here you are.” Harry squats down carefully next to Draco, trying to avoid as much mud as he can. “Got you tea.” He hands Draco the thermos flask he’s carried over.

“Oh, ta.” Draco accepts it gratefully, long fingers curling over the cool silver flask. “Here I am, yes. Excellent surveillance there on your part, Potter, you should consider being an Auror.” 

“Shut it.” Harry laughs softly. “Anyway, being an Auror’s not for me,” Harry jokes, taking a mouthful of his own tea. It’s still perfectly warm. “I hear it’s all loads of sitting around in bogs in the Fens watching a fat lot of nothing happen.”

Draco snorts, and then properly laughs, shaking his head as he looks at Harry. “Well, it’s not just that. Earlier, I saw what I am quietly confident was,” Draco pauses for effect, leaning closer to Harry; Harry feels his face flush gently from the proximity, “a badger.” 

Harry oohs theatrically, shifting slightly in his squatting position. “Well now, a badger. I take it back, this mission isn’t a total waste of time. We’ve already got results.” 

“Mmhmm. That, and my arse has gone numb. Speaking of which.” Draco pats the log he’s sitting on. “Have a seat, stop perching there on your haunches like a dying phoenix. You’re stressing me out.” 

Harry considers arguing with him, for the sake of it, but gives in. His calves are starting to ache from the weird position, anyway, and they’re rostered to monitor this area until the sun comes up. He might as well save his bickering for the smaller hours of the morning, when he and Draco are properly sick of each other and starting to snipe. They’re friends now, and far better mates than anyone would have anticipated (least of all Harry himself), and they are astoundingly good at pissing each other off and getting on each other’s tits and verbally swatting at each other like irate cats. 

No one really talks to Harry as plainly as Draco does, and Harry repays the favour. He likes that they don’t appear to be afraid of calling each other out, dispensing with sugar coating their barbs. It’s an odd thing to value in a friend, Harry thinks, but he’s an odd person, who’s lived an odd life. 

“So what are we looking for, again?” Harry adjusts his position on the log; his arse is either too bony, or this log is the most uncomfortable piece of wood Harry’s ever encountered. Not having sat on that many fallen trees, his base of reference is not huge, but he feels a growing sympathy already with Draco’s arse for having already been out here in their makeshift hideout for a good hour before Harry. 

“Illicit Potions smuggling,” replies Draco. “As you should know, Potter. Stardust, Euphoria, Mother’s Milk. The usual candidates. Apparently this is a tipped off meeting point for the exchange but I’m not feeling overly confident. I think our informant’s been telling porkies to try and save his own skin, really, but.” Draco shrugs. “Still needs to be checked out. Merlin, you’re fidgety, Potter, just sit still will you?”

“Porkies.” Harry grins at Draco, still wriggling around as he tries to get comfortable on the blasted log. “Look at you, you’ve gone all Cockney.”

“Yes,” Draco deadpans. “It’s a little known secret that the Malfoys are actually from Cheapside. This accent, my hair, it’s all a lie,” Draco adds, crisply. 

“Always did think the hair was a dye job,” Harry agrees, then laughs and leans away as Draco reaches over to thump him on the shoulder. “Ow, ow, okay, the hair is natural, I take it back.” Harry keeps grinning as he rubs at his arm with his free hand. Defeated, he slides off the log and onto the ground below. It’s damp, not quite muddy but definitely not dry. It’s almost soothing after the horrid texture of Harry’s previous seat. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Draco surmises as Harry settles his back against the log (not as bad as settling his arse on it, he finds. He rests his shoulder just against Draco’s calf, too, trying to steal a little warmth. There’s a low-level warming charm on their hideout, but it’s far from keeping them toasty, as such. Too much magic will give off a tangible and easily discernible trace for savvy criminals, rendering their surveillance moot. All they’ve got allowance for on this trip is a mild concealment charm, a Muffliato for their voices, and a heating charm that should ideally save them from hypothermia considering it’s just gone midnight and it’s February. Draco’s the one who’s cast the charms, and Harry basks a little in the tingling, misty feeling of his magic. There’s always something jumpy about Draco’s magic, his spells, as if they’re brimming with energy and excitement. Harry likes it. 

He sets his flask between his bent knees, and folds his arms across his chest, gloved fingers pressing against his ribs. He thinks it’s definitely cold enough to justify sitting this close, trying to glean Draco’s body warmth. Perfectly normal. 

“Mother’s Milk,” Harry muses. “That’s the new one, right? Has those nasty side effects.” 

Draco hums in concurrence. “Can have them, yes. It’s in the manufacturing, really. Highly addictive, as well, meaning there’s more chance someone will come across a tainted batch. Which,” Draco gestures at the dark and silent expanse of marshland in front of them, “is the reason for all of this.” 

“It’s not an ideal place for a drop off, though.” Harry frowns. “I'm surprised they’re taking the tip seriously.” 

“I don’t think they are, to be honest. After all, it’s only us here, and then Wilkins and Gunn on duty next. Hardly a substantial surveillance project. They’re just going through the motions.” 

“Making us go through the motions, you mean,” Harry gripes. He wrangles his thermos flask out from between his knees, and gulps down a warm mouthful. He looks at Draco, then taps the top of Draco’s flask with his index finger pointedly. 

Draco, lost in thought as he gazes out over the dark marshland, starts slightly. “What, what do you want now, Potter?”

“Drink your tea,” Harry orders gently, tapping his finger against the lid again. “It’ll be cold soon. You know I'm only allowed to use a weak stasis heat charm on it.” 

“Ah.” Draco nods. “And you’re also rubbish at stasis heating charms.”

“And I’m rubbish at them, yep,” agrees Harry amiably. “Now drink your shitty tea.” 

Draco finally takes a sip, then closes his eyes as he sighs, pleased. Harry watches for a moment, Draco’s breath fogging out in front of him through pink lips. Harry follows the trace of steam back to the curve of Draco’s lips, then quickly looks away when Draco’s eyes blink open. 

It’s a habit of Harry’s recently, watching Draco when he’s unaware. He makes the oddest expressions, is the thing, and seems quite unable to hide what he’s feeling. It’s written right across his face: happiness, pleasure, distaste, amusement. Harry’d spent so much of his Hogwarts years thinking of Draco as this crafty, sneaky arsehole. A year or so into their Auror training, Harry amended that thinking a little. Draco was crafty, and he could be deeply sneaky when necessary, but he wasn’t as much of a deceptive genius as Harry had thought. He had just been a teenager, and then a man, and while unpredictable in his moods, he wasn’t that hard to read. Harry felt triumphant about this first, at having found a perceived weakness. Slowly, though, their unexpected friendship bloomed and Harry's animosity ebbed away to be replaced with a grudging respect, and then a tangible fondness. This knowledge was now another part of why Harry liked Draco. 

Still, it’s not something he’s sure he wants Draco to know about. At best, it’s a bit creepy of Harry to watch him so much ― at worst, it’s far too revealing of how Harry feels about Draco himself. 

“Fucking bleak out here, isn’t it?” Harry muses, rousing himself out of his thoughts. 

“Yes.” Draco sniffs, then rests his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hands. “There’s something about this place, isn’t there,” he finishes quietly, his words trailing off into not-quite-a-question. “It’s eerie.” 

“Boring.”

“Atmospheric.” 

“You mean _boring_,” Harry repeats, wiggling his toes, encased as they are in thick woollen socks, and leather boots. “Everything looks the same, all flat and miserable.”

Draco breathes out on a heavy laugh. “Not interested in a game of I, Spy, then?” His voice is muffled, his gloved fingers covering half of his mouth. Harry tilts his head up to watch him better. Draco’s gaze is still focused on the landscape, or lack thereof, before them. Harry lets his eyes wander, up past Draco’s head, to the top of the hideout, before he follows Draco’s line of sight.

He’s not looking at the marsh anymore. He’s staring fixedly up at the night sky. 

At first, Harry sees nothing. The sky is dark, pinpricks of stars glittering faintly. They’re easier to see here than in London, and it’s a clear night anyway. Harry’s about to tease Draco for staring up at the stars like a spooked dog when there’s nothing there, just a vast stretch of barren nothing to rival even the marshland in front of them, when finally, he sees it. 

It’s beautiful, a rush of light speeding across the black expanse. Harry’s got vague memories of seeing a shooting star when he was younger, when the Dursley’s deigned to take him on a camping trip with them. It was nothing like this; that shooting star was a brief flash, and then gone. This one seems to move slower, even though Harry reasons it must be moving at speeds he cannot comprehend. It has a huge, white tail, and it burns with the fiercest white light. 

Harry thinks it looks like it fades to an icy blue in places, a lilac, even orange hues mixed in there. It illuminates the landscape, a prism of otherworldly colour as it streaks across the sky. The light fragments across the dewy grass and sparse shrubs, a kaleidoscope of abstract colours. He can’t pull his eyes away. 

_Is that a comet?_, he tries to say, but the words stick in his throat. He feels warm, his arm tingling where it’s pressed so gently against Draco’s leg. His face flushes, heat spreading from his cheeks outwards, warming his neck and tinging his ears pink. The ground is cold beneath his arse, under his legs, but the light warms his face as he gazes up at it as if he were staring at an open fire. 

Dimly, he feels he should be scared of this. His body feels struck still, his throat tight, his voice gone. There’s something sitting in his chest that feels like anticipation, though, not fear. Harry’s certain he can still recognise what true fear is. His wand is vibrating in his pocket, the emergency signal shooting back to The Ministry as it detects something wrong with its possessor, but even that isn't enough to worry Harry. 

Beside him, Draco hasn’t said a word, and that more than anything sets Harry on edge. He wants to ask him if he’s seeing what Harry’s seeing, if his ears are ringing too― if Draco too can feel the low, rumbling _buzz_ of what Harry knows is magic. He can’t make the words, though, can feel them trembling on the tip of his tongue but not solidly enough to scoop them up. He can feel the heat of Draco’s leg against his arm, a solid anchor of another’s presence, but he desperately wants more. A sound, a word, a proper touch from Draco. That would be enough to calm Harry’s rattled bones, he thinks, even as the colours in front of his eyes start to blur, as his head swims. 

The sensation he feels when Draco touches the back of his neck is unlike anything he’s ever known, and yet familiar at the same time―it’s the prickle of electricity, the bitter tang of magic in the back of the throat, static shooting up his neck and down between his ribs and thighs. 

Harry sighs, comforted even though Draco’s hand doesn’t feel steady, even though Draco’s body is starting to slump. Harry feels the blood in his veins rush excitedly through him, his heart pumping faster. He should be afraid. The light in the sky grows brighter, and brighter, until all Harry can see is vague splotches of colour. He should be afraid, but he’s not. 

Draco’s gloved fingers curl around the shape of Harry’s nape just as the blinding light flickers out. 

Harry’s cheek hits the freezing ground, glasses tumbling off, as his conscious flickers out with it.

✹✯✹

The lights of the hospital office are bright, and harsh.

The room is sterile and welcomingly bland. Harry sits in a chair, opposite the Healer attending to them. His head aches, his stomach churning. He doesn’t feel ill, so much as wrong all over. The lights hurt his eyes. 

He doesn’t remember getting here, just waking up under stiff hospital sheets with a banger of a headache and a weirdly desperate need to know where Draco was at. The answer to which turned out to be: Draco was similarly miserable, and in a bed right opposite Harry’s. His hair was sticking up like mad, the way it always does after a sleep and a fact which Harry is only privy to because of Draco's propensity to nap at his desk during late night shifts. He’s like a cat sometimes, Harry thinks. He can fall asleep anywhere.

It’s long been an observation of Harry’s that Draco is stunningly good looking, a fact he’s made peace with knowing and tucked away inside his chest with the other things he’s not sure how to make productive use of. It still blows him away, though, that Draco can look so attractive while his hair is sticking up like a messy patch of straw and there’s craggy creases in his cheeks from the pillow. 

He also knows he’s deeply biased when it comes to Draco and his respective attractiveness. It seems that as Harry’s fondness grew, so changed the way he saw Draco, affection trickling down inside him and settling into a warm pool of attraction. 

It’s like the way Harry watches Draco, though, observing and learning more about him. He doesn’t know what to do with it, how to make it useful. Harry has bugger all experience with liking people, with handling crushes. There was always a megalomaniac trying to kill him; Harry didn’t have much time to try and parse out how he really felt about Cedric, and Cho. About Sirius. Ginny was the easiest crush to have, oddly, or at least the easiest one to act on. She was the only person who was ever both available and acceptable for Harry to be interested in at the same time. That, and he fancied her when no one was actively baying for his blood. 

It hadn’t worked out between them, although the sex had been fun and friendship had happily survived the breakup, and now Harry was rather back at square one―with a crush on someone he wasn’t sure what to do with. No one was trying to kill him at the moment, at least not as far as he was aware, but apparently the cosmos were still playing funny buggers with him, which was just his luck. 

The Healers seemed less confused about what had happened in the marshy Fens, but they were also infuriatingly vague when it came to sharing that information. Even after being poked and prodded and magically examined for what seemed like longer than they were even unconscious, the Healers didn’t seem inclined to give anything other than vague answers and annoying hums when Harry asked what had happened. A very valid question, he felt, considering that it was far from usual for him to be mesmerised by a shiny thing in the sky, go all tingly, and then pass out. At least not without having had a few drinks, Draco kept teasing him. Harry didn’t feel overly different, and definitely not like something significant had occurred, which was in itself rather concerning; Dark Magic could be sneaky, Harry had found. He really hoped he and Draco hadn’t managed to step in some somehow and that was why the sky had gone squiffy and Harry had felt such an odd zap and comfort at all the places he and Draco touched.

God forbid there actually was an illicit potions smuggling ring going off in the marshlands, alerted to their presence by Harry moaning about the cold log and dodgy tea. He’ll never live that down. 

The answer turns out to be somehow even more ridiculous. 

“An astrological anomaly induced bond,” Harry repeats, deadpan, as the Head Healer of the Magical Malfunctions ward finishes announcing his prognosis.

“Space magic,” says Draco, tapping long fingers irritably against the arm of his chair. “You’re saying we’ve been zapped by space magic.” 

The Healer huffs. “That’s rather simplifying things, gentlemen.” 

“Oh, my apologies,” Draco says in the saccharine tone that indicates he’s about to be incredibly rude. “It’s just that it’s 3am and I’ve spent half an hour conked out in a stupid soggy field on top of this pilchard,” he nods at Harry, “and after being dragged out of there by reconnaissance Aurors, who are going to be giggling about how we flopped on the job for the next eternity, your explanation for it is “cosmic bollocks has created a bond between you both, have a biscuit”. Have I summed that up correctly? Anything to add, Potter?”

Draco turns to Harry, the impact of his annoyed glare somewhat softened by the bags under his eyes and the fact that his hair is still, frankly, a huge mess. 

Harry, elbow resting on the arm of his chair and chin in his hands, taps two fingers against his lips. “_You’re_ a pilchard,” is the only thing he can think to add to Draco’s annoyed soliloquy. It’s all a bit much to take in; he can be forgiven for being somewhat off his game. 

Draco throws his hands up. “Wonderful contribution as always, Potter, so glad you’re here.”

“You’re welcome, Draco.” Kill ‘em with kindness, is apparently Harry’s sparring tactic du jour. He very badly would like a nap. Before either Draco or the Healer―whose name is Jones orJefferies or something j-ish and dull that Harry’s managed to already forget―can start off again, Harry speaks. 

“But hang on, if we’ve been bonded, shouldn’t we, y’know.” Harry flaps his free hand about, then lets it flop to his knee. “Feel a bit different? Feel a bit anything?” Harry shrugs one unimpressed shoulder. “I feel fine, just a bit cranky and tired.” 

“I’m thrilled to hear that, Mr Potter,” The Healer responds, his voice heavy and tired. “The effects of this kind of phenomenologically induced pairing are often quite subtle, however, and not likely to be noticed until they truly make themselves known. In fact, had we not found you tonight, in the open air and suffering symptoms which at least six other couples have also presented with in the last four hours, then we might not have made the connection as quickly as we did. As it was, by the time you were both brought in, prone after a bout of stargazing, we were confident you were case number seven.” The Healer smiles. 

Harry manages a sort of grimacey face back at him. “Wait, we’re coup― case number seven?” Harry asks, incredulous. His head is _pounding_. Beside him, Harry can see Draco has started rubbing at his temples. Oddly, he feels as if it's soothing his own wretched headache, too. 

“Yes.” There's a quill and ink on the desk in front of the Healer, and he reaches for them now, then strokes his fingers across the soft edges of the quill. “Amateur astronomers, for the most part, out to catch a glimpse of something celestial.” The Healer’s smile turns almost wistful. 

Draco’s frown is anything but. “Hang on, so this is common, then? People getting pinged by passing stars?”

“Oh, not in the slightest. It’s rather rare, in the scheme of things. And it was a comet, I think you’ll find.” 

“Oh, will I,” Draco snaps. 

“I thought it might have been,” adds Harry, feeling quite triumphant at guessing correctly― and then feeling an odd, distant throb of annoyance somewhere in the back of his mind. He’s not in a particularly bad mood, and at the same time, it’s there simmering around him. Not for the first time he wonders if Draco is managing to actually project his pissiness out into the atmosphere, but he doesn’t mention it. The last time he did that Draco tried to hex his knees together. 

“Oh, don’t you start.” Draco shoots him a glare, and Harry feels the throb of irritation spike. 

“What, I did think it was a comet.” 

Ignoring Harry, Draco turns back to the Healer. “But shouldn’t we be issuing warnings to people when these sorts of celestial events occur, to prevent these from happening?” he asks. “Stop people from standing out in fields at least, pointing telescopes at these magical anomalies?”

“Oh, we would,” The Healer pauses, “if it were possible to predict them.” 

Draco laughs in a gust of wry exhaustion. “Well, you know they exist, and you seem to understand the situation well enough, so surely you know when these things are going to go off?” 

“Surely, we don’t.” 

“How can you not?” Draco sounds incredulous, stuck on this detail.

The Healer leans back in his chair then taps the feathered end of the quill against the small ink jar nearby. His mouth twists pensively. “Because there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy,” he quotes. 

“What does _that_ mean?” Draco leans back himself, arms folded across his chest. “What does Shakespeare have to do with this?” 

Harry furrows his brow as he thinks. “I think it means space is really big and they have no real idea how this works,” he posits. The Healer smiles what looks to be his first genuine smile of the evening. 

“Bingo, Mr Potter.” He points his quill at Harry. “Albeit, again, an oversimplified view of the situation. You see, we have astronomers, Muggle and magical, who can map the stars for us, the turn of the planets, the pull of the moon. They can predict some significant astrological events, but they cannot predict all of them, and they cannot thus predict with reliable certainty if and when these events will affect the magical fields on earth, and of those inhabiting it. Sometimes what we see in the sky passes us by with barely a glance our way. Other times, such as we saw tonight, these anomalies seem to catch those who watch too closely in their wake. And when they do,” The Healer brings his hands together, quill cupped between them, “there is often a magical surge which in turn creates an orbital pull between two magical beings, and thus.” The Healer claps his hands fully around the quill. “A connection is made between them.” 

“A connection,” Harry repeats, barely a mumble. “How does…” he trails off, unsure of the words he needs to force the question in his mind out loud. He feels somewhat overwhelmed. 

“Think of it like two balls of entwined yarn, Mr Potter, if that helps.”

It really doesn’t, but Harry isn’t inclined to push it right now; it’s late, and everyone is already in a rotten mood. The three of them lapse into silence, the Healer content in his explanations and Draco and Harry mulling over their differing levels of nonplussed confusion.

“I just feel.” Draco pauses for a moment, closing his eyes and choosing his words carefully as he rubs slowly over his temples again. “That this has got to be complete horse shit.”

Harry laughs, and the sound croaks out of him even as he tries to muffle it into his palm. They’re already on the thinnest of ice with their Healer, it seems, and they probably ought not to be goading him so much, but still. This situation feels stupid, this bond is stupid, and Harry has developed two rather bad habits recently: finding Draco funny, and giggling during serious discussions. The second habit is usually very closely related to the first, it seems. 

“I assure you it is not shit, horse or otherwise,” The Healer counters, somewhat stiffly. “We are all made of stardust, Mr Malfoy. The iron in your blood was forged in dying stars. Don’t imagine the magic that runs through you doesn't respond to that which runs through the most distant galaxies.” 

“Yes, well, can it not run through me so forcibly when I’m trying to work?” Draco gripes, unimpressed. 

“I’ll be sure to send a memo to the sun, as well as all other magical space detritus passing through our galaxy, on your behalf,” the Healer says with impressive sarcasm. It reminds Harry, powerfully and suddenly, of Snape. “Now, before I do that, shall we focus on the more pressing concerns of symptoms and duration?”

“Please,” Harry says, feeling exhausted from the barrage of information, the late hour, and the strange flip flop of emotions tumbling around inside him. He’s never been so giggly and so cranky at the same time before. 

“Very well. First, how long it will last,” the Healer states. “As I mentioned, these bonds do not happen often. They will fade on their own, usually within six to eight months ―”

“Six to eight _months_?” Draco interrupts. 

“Jesus.” Harry breathes out slowly. 

“Without medical intervention, that is,” The Healer clarifies. “We are luckily in a position to have this resolved by, at the very latest, Sunday evening. Given that it’s Friday now, or technically the very early hours of Saturday morning, I should think we will have the necessary potions on hand by then. These cases don’t happen often, but we do like to get them resolved quickly.” 

“Oh, good. That’s nice of you,” Draco says. Harry honestly can't tell if he's being sincere or snarky at this stage. 

“Isn’t it,” the Healer agrees, either in the same position as Harry or simply choosing to ignore it. “Now, side effects. These are thankfully not extreme, which is why I will be discharging you as soon as we are done here. For the duration of the potion-brewing period you will need to be kept in proximity to each other. It’s rare, but we have had some adverse effects between bonded pairs who stray too far away from each other. As such, it would be ideal if you could stay together until Sunday. In the same house, in close quarters.”

“What, like, in the same _bed_?” Harry blurts, shocked. 

“Oh, no no.” The Healer chuckles. “No, that is in fact too far in the other direction, and brings us to symptom number two.” 

“Oh?”

“Emotional and physical connection. No doubt as we’ve sat here you’ve been aware of the other’s mood, as it were. Perhaps without being sure of what it was, exactly, but it’s there. Now, should you intimate physical content, skin on skin, intimacy of any kind. The connection will most likely increase. Is this clear?”

“Err.” Harry can feel himself flushing at the suggestion of physical intimacy. He wonders, suddenly, if this means Draco can feel that Harry is feeling embarrassed, or worse that he’s interested, and chances a glace in his direction. Draco looks similarly stricken, flushed a lobster blush, but for all Harry knows that’s all his own embarrassment, Merlin, he’s confused already. 

“Um,” Draco manages, seemingly no more eloquent than Harry. “So. No touching.”

“Oh, well far be it from me to tell you what can and cannot do,” the Healer says somewhat smugly. “But should you initiate physical contact, you will most definitely intensify the ability to receive each other’s emotions or reactions. This may also occur during periods of heightened stress or strong emotion, even without any physical content, so do try and have a relaxing weekend.” He smiles his awful pleased smile. Harry would be annoyed if he wasn’t busy being confused and wildly embarrassed at all this talk of touching and feelings. 

“Right. Um.” Harry sincerely hopes his face doesn’t look as hot as he currently feels. “Is that...everything then?”

“For the most part, yes. Now, if you would like to make arrangements for where you will stay, we can get you there quickly and safely. It’s far too late and dangerous to have you Apparate, not after this kind of an evening. Duty of care, and all that, you know.” The Healer waves a hand if he’s swatting away midges. 

“Well.” Draco presses his hands to the arms of the chair palm down, then flexes his fingers. He lets them settle around the shape of the wood. “We’ll stay at mine. It’s closer, and I’ve got Nettle to look after.” He looks up at Harry, the expression in his grey eyes both hard and tired at once. “Alright, Potter?”

Harry shrugs, too tired and still full of fidgety embarrassment to really put up much of a fight. 

“Whatever you want, Malfoy.”

✹✯✹

Nettle greets them at the door, a medium blur of grey and white fur and boundless affection.

Draco returns it with equal devotion. 

“Oh hello, darling,” he coos, trying to shuffle Harry in the door and keep the dog from escaping. “Have you missed me, while I was out all night with this great lummox, getting shat on by comets?” 

Harry laughs at him, too charmed by Nettle leaning up to rest her paws on Draco’s thighs to be really offended by the comment. “Oh, piss off,” he says without feeling, “and get out of the way, Malfoy.” Harry slips his way past Draco and the dog, and their strange waltz of a greeting. “And hello, Nettle, you look lovely as always,” Harry adds. “Have you had a haircut?” Nettle wags her tail back at him enthusiastically. 

“She does looks lovely,” Draco agrees. “She’s an angel. And yes she has.” He lets the dog down on all four legs, where she rushes around his calves, sniffing him all over. Satisfied, she trots over to her day bed and flops down, happily watching them. “She’s not had as much lopped off as you, mind.” 

Draco pointedly eyes Harry’s short, cropped hair. Harry runs a hand over the familiar blunt strands. Draco’s eyes are smiling, and he can see there’s no barbs in the comment, which is welcome. He’s been shaving his hair short for at least four years now, and it's been a while since someone implored him to grow it back.

“I’m due for a tidy up, actually,” he replies, watching Draco reach into the jar of liver treats he keeps for Nettle. In his periphery, Harry can see her ears perk up at the prospect of food. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, before turning so he can properly watch Draco. 

When he first did it after the war it made people stop and stare in Diagon even more so than usual, which Harry utterly hated. It didn’t stop him from reaching for the hair clippers again a few weeks later when it was getting longer, and then again the month after. He just wanted to look different, to cut away some of what made him so recognisable as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He wanted to just be Harry, the ordinary bloke who finally had some clothes who fit, who could finish school, who could get a job and kiss a person he liked. The Boy Who Lived could be the one who barely slept from the nightmares, who had his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair and had carried part of a monstrous soul inside him since infancy. Just Harry wanted other things, now. Somehow, cutting his hair off seemed like the only attainable way to mark the two as different, as Harry before King’s Cross and Harry after, even though it was only a surface gesture and brought the scar on his forehead into stark relief. 

It wasn’t until Ron joked that it made people think he was having some kind of breakdown that Harry realised two things: firstly, that people were unsettled by this intentional removal of something they saw as so attractive about him, so iconic of the boy they watched grow up. And secondly, that he kind of _was_ having a breakdown. Or at least, whatever he took Ron to mean by that. The clash of who Harry had been all his life and what he’d lived with, and who he wanted to be now, was weighing on him in ways he didn’t know how to handle. He’d heard once that some soldiers, after their wars had been fought and won, found it harder to live during peacetime. Harry wondered if that was what he was going through. 

The therapist he went to called it a lot of different things, but Harry still thinks it boils down to that in the end; he just wasn’t sure how to be still, or okay, or not expect a stab of pain in his forehead and peril at his door.

He’s much more equipped to deal with the pull between his past and who he is now, though. Trimming his hair short is something that he oddly still finds comfort in, a way to bring The Boy Who Lived and Just Harry together that Harry feels comfortable with. Or maybe he’s still just not in the mood to be arsed with brushing it; it was always a complete mess, and it still grows thick and fast. He thinks he cuts a striking figure with it, too, even though some people still see it as an odd form of punishment, just as his aunt had when she’d cropped it all off. Hermione says he’s got the cheekbones to carry it off, and Ginny used to like running her hands over it while they were in bed together. Harry’s not had a lot of experience with men, but he’d like to know what it feels like to have their hands running over his hair in bed, too. The thought of specifically _Draco_ doing it makes his face flush, heat curl in his stomach in a pleasant, familiar thrill. 

The sudden thought of Draco being able to feel what he is feeling via the bond makes that same feeling in his stomach lurch and plummet. 

Harry clears his throat, rubbing his palm over the stubble on his cheeks. He glances at Draco, who’s leaning against the wall, arms folded and entire posture oozing fatigue, to see if he’s noticed anything, picked anything up off of Harry. Draco doesn’t mention it, though, or seem anything other than tired and mildly bemused by Harry’s quietness. Harry thinks he can pass that off as just being a result of the odd night. 

Draco motions towards the kitchen with his head, then raises one eyebrow to punctuate the question. “Cup of tea, then?” he asks, and then as if reading Harry’s mood, adds, “or straight to bed? You look frightful, if I can be honest.” He smirks. “Shall I set you up in the guest room?” 

Harry nods, ignoring the frightful remark; he deserves a medal for not pointing out that Draco looks like a surprised scarecrow with his current bedhead. “Which guest room is that?” asks Harry as he follows him down the long hallway. “Don’t you have roughly seventy-five spare rooms in this colossal eyesore of a house.” 

“Excuse you,” Draco shoots back, footsteps heavy as he starts to ascend the stairs, Harry and Nettle following him up to the bedrooms. “This house is barely half the size of the Manor.” 

“Which is an even bigger eyesore of a house, yes.”

“Right, just for that, Harry, you can sleep on the floor.” 

Harry chuckles, each stair feeling harder than the last as the events of the evening seem to suddenly weigh on him like a tonne of bricks. Quickly, before he can think better of it, he takes the chance to voice something that's been niggling at his mind. “Draco,” he starts, then licks his lips, choosing his words. 

“Harry,” Draco responds, stopping in front of the third door he comes across. Nettle trots past them, slipping into another room a door down which must be Draco’s, given the way she confidently enters. Harry feels so oddly fond that she sleeps in his room. He never pegged Draco as an animal person, but now it’s another piece in the collage of Draco that Harry’s been making in his mind―all those strange and unexpected pieces that seem to slot together and somehow make perfect sense. 

“About this bond business,” Harry says, having taken the time to select his words and still coming up rather short. Draco smiles wryly, leaning against the wall once more as if he’s too tired to properly hold himself up. “Have you been able to. Y’know.” Harry shrugs, makes a swirling motion with one hand. He leaves it half extended between them, careful not to make contact. 

“I’m not sure I do know, Potter,” Draco murmurs, his voice low. “Care to enlighten me?” 

“Can you... feel me? What I feel, that is,” Harry replies, tucking his free arm around his middle. His other hand sits casually outstretched between, as if he’s holding an invisible teacup. Understanding blooms across Draco’s face, but the moment stretches on long past the time Harry would have expected him to reply. 

Draco twists his mouth, then stands away from the wall, straightening up to his full height. Now, they’re almost eye to eye, Draco’s inch or so of extra height giving him only a small advantage. Harry feels a shiver run through him all the same. 

“Can you...feel _me_?” Draco asks in lieu of properly responding. Standing in front of Harry now, he’s almost close enough for Harry to touch him with his outstretched hand, to brush his fingers across his chest and the soft wool of his shirt. 

Harry feels that shiver again, eyes flicking from Draco’s eyes to his lips, and he can’t tell if the answer is _no_ or _yes_―if he’s just feeling his own curiosity and interest here, or if this is something that’s echoing back at him from Draco. Harry’s wondered before if Draco’s interested in him, in touches that linger just slightly too long, in looks that seem like Draco has words that want to follow them. When they drink too much together and walk home to one or the other’s house, the backs of their hands brushing as they amble along, with far too often a frequency to be anything other than deliberate. Harry can read Draco these days, he thinks, better than he used to, but he can’t read this. It could be wishful thinking, his own longing turning into a skewed interpretation of what is merely affectionate friendly on Draco’s part. The problem, Harry thinks, is that he doesn't know how to read himself when it comes Draco, and what he feels about him. Times like now, when Draco steps close enough to touch and with those grey eyes boring through him, Harry feels like Draco is giving him all the information he needs, but Harry just doesn’t know how to process it. 

With the added element of the bond coursing between them, muddling what’s coming from Harry and what’s Draco, things should be more confusing. Strangely, though, Harry feels just the opposite. For the first time in the year or so that Harry’s been parsing these feelings and instincts out, he feels with certainty that there is something there, that it’s not just him. 

“I asked first, Malfoy” he says, voice low, rather than mention any of this to Draco. It’s too new, too uncertain. How does he say, _I think I feel that you like me_, without sounding like an utter knob, and a teenager with a crush to boot? 

Draco huffs out a silent laugh, then rubs at his eye with two fingers of his left hand. Like that, the tension between them breaks, the trickle of feeling creeping up Harry’s spine down from his nape is gone. It’s all him now. He likes that he can tell that; it confirms even more so that there was something there that wasn’t coming from him before. 

“So you did.” Draco smiles at Harry, head tilted down as he continues rubbing at his eye like an overtired toddler. He doesn’t answer the question, just as Harry didn’t either. His smile lingers though, and he doesn’t look away as he reaches for the doorknob and then gestures for Harry to enter. 

“No touching,” he whispers as Harry moves to go in, almost brushing past him. Harry rolls his eyes, trying and failing to suppress the goosebumps that prickle over his neck where Draco’s breath ghosted for just a moment. Harry makes an exaggerated show of ducking to avoid any contact with Draco as Draco slides his hand up the door and over Harry’s head. 

“How was that, enough distance?” Harry raises his eyebrows, fighting a smile. 

“Yes, excellent. Good boy, Potter. You can have one of Nettle’s liver treats, if you fancy.” Draco smirks at Harry briefly, before turning away to pull out his wand and cast a few spells to freshen up the bed linens. 

“Oh, lucky me,” Harry mutters, resolutely ignoring the oddly pleasant feeling that the phrase _good boy_ settles inside him. He busies himself with taking off his thick Auror coat and teal green scarf instead, until he’s just in his white shirt and black wool trousers. He dithers for a moment before hanging them over the back of the nearest chair, part of a set by one of the ornate windows. As expected, Draco tuts at him. 

“Heathen,” he mumbles, before shaking his hair out of his eyes and tucking his wand away. “Right.” Draco plants his hands on his hips, his jacket and shirt rolled up to expose his forearms; Harry resists looking at the somewhat mottled and faded scar on the left. He knows Draco hates that. “That’s the bed sorted. You can borrow some night clothes of mine, if you’d like? We’ll sort out fetching some proper things of yours for tomorrow when neither of us are dead on our feet. Toothbrush and so on.” Draco trails off as if talking to himself, already turning to head out the door and to his own room to gather some clothes for Harry. 

“I thought I’d just use your toothbrush!” Harry calls out to Draco’s retreating back. Harry can’t make out Draco’s reply, but he’s certain it’s heavily expletive laden. 

He grins as he sits down on the bed heavily, toeing his shoes off and pulling his wand out of his pocket so it ceases jabbing him in the thigh. He lies down backwards, legs dangling off the bed as he breathes out a long sigh that feels like it’s been building in him for hours.

A top and a pair of grey pyjama bottoms hit him on the face just as he’s shut his eyes. “Oi,” he groans, pulling them away from his head and glaring up at Draco. 

“Ta dah, I brought you pyjamas. Be grateful, Potter,” Draco mutters happily. The bed dips as he plants his hands on it in loose fists then leans his weight on them. Upside down, he smiles at Harry. Harry smiles hopelessly back, surprised by Draco’s sudden proximity. The playfulness of his position. Harry doesn't dare point out that this is slightly out of the blue, though, for fear of spooking Draco, of having him lean away again.

“Mmhmm.” Harry blinks up at Draco, lips pursed and vibrating as he hums his answer. 

“Wonderful. Make yourself at home, then. I’ll be just in the room one door down, and if you need anything in the night,” Draco’s smile softens, “sort it out yourself because I don’t want to be woken up,” he finishes softly, looking at Harry with such an unerring fondness that Harry almost has to look away. He doesn’t though, letting himself enjoy the moment and trying to differentiate what’s his own affection, and what’s coming from Draco. It’s like trying to follow motes of dust in a sunbeam with his eyes, a confusing and mesmerising dance of near identical particles, but one that he enjoys watching all the same. 

He wonders if Draco is doing the same thing in his own head, as he looks down at Harry. If Harry tilted his head to the side, he could press his forehead against Draco’s knuckles. He’d like to. Harry hears the bedsheets rustle as Draco shifts his weight onto one arm, laying the hand closest to Harry’s head out palm down on the bed. He extends his fingers slowly, one by one, as if stretching them, each action deliberate and measured. Harry feels impossibly aware of how close they are to touching him, each movement of Draco’s hand almost ghosting across his skin. The room is so quiet he can make out each of Draco’s soft breaths. He’s suddenly aware that he’s holding his own. 

The bed shifts again abruptly as Draco finally breaks eye contact, leaning up off the bed, and Harry finally breathes out. Draco clears his throat, a flush painting his cheeks and the dip of his collarbone visible above the collar of his shirt a soft pink. He licks his lips, then runs his fingers through his hair. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, walking backwards to the door. Harry watches him go, still lying on his back on the bed and tilting his head at an awkward angle. 

When the door clicks shut, he shuts his eyes, then picks up the pyjama top Draco left him and pulls it back over his face. Muffled, he groans into it as loudly as he dares, letting the excited frustration tumble over his lips. He has no idea what just happened, but it was something significant, Harry decides as he sits up, quickly pulling the buttons of his shirt through their holes and peeling it off. He slips on the cream-coloured henley top Draco left him, followed by the soft pyjama trousers, and flings the corner of the duvet back with more force than is necessary. He all but falls into the bed face first, catching himself on his elbows at the last minute to save himself from landing on his glasses. He pops those off and folds them carefully, then sets them on the bedside table. With a click, he flicks the lamp off and plunges the room into welcome darkness. 

Ironically, and annoyingly, Harry often finds that when he’s truly overtired he can’t get to sleep for hours. It’s like the moment Harry’s head hits the pillow his brain decides it needs to be alert, just to fuck with him. Thankfully, for once in his life, tonight seems to be an exception to this. As he burrows down into the soft blankets of Draco’s guests room, clad in a top that smells of Draco’s laundry powder, Harry feels himself slipping off into a thick and dreamless sleep almost instantly.

✹✯✹

Harry wakes early, thirsty and disoriented for a long moment before the events of the past night, and the reason he’s in an unusual bed, make themselves known once more to him.

_Comet. Bond. Draco_. Things come to his mind in that order. 

Harry burrows sleepily into the mattress, stubble scratching against the pillow and limbs warm and lazy. The neck of his borrowed top is loose and open, and the room is dimly lit by the sun; the thick curtain block most of it out, charmed no doubt to give Draco's guests the optimal amount of a lie in. Raised to be ever the gracious host, is little lord Malfoy. Harry rubs his forehead against the pillow, a rhythmic back and forth as he tries to decide if he'll get up now or try and catch a bit more sleep. 

The pressing concerns of his bladder decide for him in the end, and he turns the soft covers down, emerges from his little cocoon of warmth. He immediately misses it as he presses the balls of his feet against the cold, hard wood floors. He'll have to take the piss out of Draco for not being _that_ good a host, after all. Surely any Malfoy worth his salt can charm the icy touch off the floorboards. 

Harry smiles to himself about it, smug and pleased, all the way down the hall to where he vaguely remembers the bathroom is. 

He's stayed at Draco's before, not often but just a handful of times―after a particularly long stakeout, after a party Draco threw for his birthday. There are rooms upon room, it seems to Harry, the house almost as big as Grimmauld and far more well put together. Harry doesn't like it, not really. It's too clean, too minimalist in its layout. Everything has its right place, and fits there perfectly. Harry prefers a little comforting clutter, some of the warm disarray he associates with _home_. Draco has often told Harry he himself finds Harry's house a total tip, so they're evenly matched in terms of disliking each other's choice of abode. It would be strange to Harry if they weren't, in a way. 

And it doesn't seem to stop Draco from popping round with a curry most weekends. 

It takes Harry two tries before he finds the right door to the bathroom, fingers slipping a little clumsily over the ornate handle in his morning stupor. The bathroom tiles are clean and white, and freezing, underneath his feet. Harry pisses, leaning one shoulder against the wall as he does and resisting the urge to close his eyes again and doze off. Power napping while having a wee has never been suggested to him as a good idea, and Harry’s sure Draco would murder him if he got piss on his fancy bathroom floor. Murder him, and feed him to the peacocks, no doubt. Harry flushes the loo, smiling to himself again as he makes his way to the sink to wash his hands. 

Sluicing the warm water over his fingers and wrists feels heavenly. Harry waves a finger in front of the soap dispenser, feels the comforting tingle of Draco's magic as the clear liquid bubbles out and onto his palm. Harry finishes and dries his hands, catching sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. He looks no different that he did the morning before, he finds. The same tall, slim bloke, with short dark hair and wire-frame glasses. Draco's pyjama bottoms fit him well, resting low on his hips, where they meet the cream coloured Henley top, the three buttons undone. There's faint stubble on his cheeks, bags under his eyes, a thin scar on his forehead. Same old, same old. Harry can’t see a single thing that's different about him or would indicate there's a connection between himself and the man sleeping down the hallway. The same as there's no visible indication that he and Draco spent years hating each other, Harry supposes, before it grew into a friendship somehow, and now teetering around the edge of more. 

Harry knows it's there though. 

Harry plucks distractedly at his lower lip with two fingers as he turns away, eyeing off the enormous shower. He strips off quickly, eager to wash the sleep fully away from himself. Once he's got the water to the right temperature, the warm stream of it sliding down his back, he indulges what else he's eager for and slips his hand around his mostly soft cock. 

The glass shower wall is steaming up quickly, yet still cold against Harry's palm as he rests his free hand against it. His other hand slides up and down in a loose fist, his cock thickening as he goes. He rolls his shoulders against the firm spray of the water, letting it give him an impromptu massage. Trust Malfoy to have impeccable water pressure, Harry thinks, hand speeding up as the tension of the night before and his insufficient sleep seems to ebb away. 

It takes a few more tugs of Harry's fist to have him fully hard, and he pumps his cock once, twice more before letting it go. He eyes Draco's lines of shampoos and body wash, a crimson coloured soap that smells of berries and citrus. It turns Harry on even more, the scent of Draco's products and body potions and illicit and daring thrill. He tips a small circle of a lavender coloured lotion into his cupped palm, his breath catching as he angles his body away from the stream to rub his hand along the length of his prick. 

Harry spreads his legs slightly, sighing as he works himself over. He rests his free hand against the cool glass shower wall once more, leaving a smear of sweet-smelling lotion in his wake. Peppermint, Harry realises, the same scent he's smell before on Draco's skin when Harry's leant close to read a document over his shoulder or sling an arm around him in the pub. He bites his lip, a low moan slipping out as he grips himself tighter. 

He can tell it's not going to take long, the stress of the evening making him ache for a quick release, the thrill of an orgasm. The familiar scent is maddening to him, getting under his skin and intensifying every stroke of his hand, every time his thumb bumps against the plummy head of his cock and his toes curl against the water-warmed shower tiles beneath his feet. He feels his breathing grow off kilter, sensation skittering up his spine as the pleasure seems to reverberate through him, ecchoing off the walls of the shower stall and back under his overheated skin. He shuts his eyes, throat working around a soundless gasp and groan as his balls tighten and his cock twitches in his hand. 

It feels like he's coming forever, the way all truly good orgasms do―and not at all how a quick morning wank usually feels. Harry gasps, working himself through it and looking down at his hand as he wrings the last of his orgasm out of himself. He struggles to catch his breath for a moment, shower spray beating against his back and come swirling down the drain. He leans his forehead against the hand pressed against the wall to give himself a moment to recover, and to wonder how hard up for it he must have been for it to have felt like _that_. It's been a while since he had sex, but it's not been a while since he's tugged himself off. There's no reason for it to have been so intense. 

Harry stands upright again, shaking himself off and running his hands over his overheated face. He chalks it up to the weird night, not enough sleep perhaps making him woozy and hornier than usual, and nothing more. 

He doesn't think about it again as he finishes cleaning himself off.

✹✯✹

Harry's making his way down to the kitchen, scrubbed clean and walking loose-hipped from orgasm, when Nettle excitedly trots up to him.

“Hello darling,” he mutters softly, stroking down her sleek, grey body. She trembles with happiness, ears soft and tail wagging. Such an odd thing, Harry thinks as he plays at the soft fur around her ears. She’s elegant the way all Saluki’s Harry's seen are, beautiful and slender and with the loveliest long ears, but she's so awkward, too, such a bundle of nervous energy. Harry's never had a pet that wasn't airborne and never cared much for them either, but he feels a thrill of being special every time she comes up to him, while shying away from other people. Animals are always honest, and Harry doesn't give much of a flying fuck what people think of him, but he values all creatures' opinions. Perhaps it's a throwback to that very first time Buckbeak bowed to him, deemed him worthy of a ride. 

Perhaps it's nice knowing that an animal Draco adores, adores Harry in return. 

Harry pets her one final time, heading for the kitchen as Nettle trots towards the Pet-Ward wall. She slips through it in a soft blur of magic and out into the garden. 

He finds Draco in the kitchen at the wooden eating table, an ample breakfast set before him. He glances up when Harry walks in, and then away again quickly. 

“Morning, Potter,” Draco says, slightly stiffly. He clears his throat, then gestures to the seat opposite him. “Hungry?” 

“Always,” replies Harry easily. Draco seems off this morning, awkward. Harry wonders if the past evening and bad sleep is perhaps hitting him harder than it is Harry. He sits down, his chair magically tucking itself in behind him. A white napkin unfolds itself from the table setting and lays itself down gently across his lap.

“Sleep well?” Draco asks, gesturing at the display of food before them and signaling for Harry to help himself. Harry smiles his thanks, then runs his hand over his hair. It’s already almost completely dry; there's only about a centimeter of it at the moment, just enough to suggest the tangled curls that threaten to burst back if Harry will let them, and it dries quickly. 

“Yes, I guess so.” Harry folds his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, eyes off the spread of food before him. He decides he wants tea in lieu of coffee. “As well as can be expected, I’d say. Oh, I hope you don’t mind, I used your Floo before.” Harry adds a splash of milk to his tea. “To call Ginny, ask her to drop me off some clothes for the rest of the weekend. She’s got the codes for all my wards, knows her way around my closet,” he clarifies at Draco’s blank look. 

Draco nods, his lips pulled into a tight smile as he slips his fingers into the delicate bone china handle of his tea cup. “Absolutely fine, Potter.’ He sips his tea, sets the cup back in its saucer with a gentle rattle. “I look forward to her bringing you around your most appalling house clothes and ratty joggers.” 

His words are polite, and his tone measured, but Harry becomes aware of a stirring in his stomach, at the base of his spine. It’s familiar, and it takes him a moment, as he distractedly stirs his tea, to identify it as jealousy. It squirms strangely inside him, and he frowns in confusion before he realises, it’s not his. The stab of jealous discomfort at the mention of Harry’s ex is coming from Draco. 

“Um,” Harry says, at a loss for a moment at what to say. He isn’t sure if Draco knows he can feel what's going on inside him, but based on Draco’s expression he would hazard not―Harry’s certain that if Draco knew, he wouldn’t be able to help reacting with embarrassment, or denial. “Guess that’s the downside of being my ex,” he says, hoping a joke will diffuse the tension and ease Draco’s discomfort, currently simmering inside Harry. “Have to still sort through my pants and bring me socks when I get in a tight spot.” 

“Poor her,” Draco agrees. His expression doesn’t change, but Harry feels Draco’s jealousy ebbing away. He’s not sure if that’s from Harry’s attempt at glossing over it, reminding Draco they are exes, or if Draco simply got a handle on himself. Either way, Harry does feel oddly pleased to know that it got to Draco, even though he feels unkind for that. 

They lapse into silence, but not an uncomfortable one, as they each serve themselves some breakfast. Draco elects for scrambled eggs with salmon and chives, the flecks of finely chopped green herb sitting starkly against the soft, fluffy yellow. Harry feels mildly overwhelmed by the amount of choice before him. They're only two people and yet there’s eggs, cold meats, a platter of sliced fruit and French pastries. He idly fingers his knife and fork and tries to make a decision. Across the table, Draco eyes him off. 

“So, how was the shower?” Draco queries a moment later, picking up his knife and watching Harry shrewdly. 

“Hmm? Oh it was good, cheers.” Harry helps himself to some apple juice as well as his tea, then finally makes a decision and plops a toasted English muffin on his plate. He hisses when he finds it’s still scaldingly hot, charmed to feel fresh out of the toaster. He eyes off the fruit platter. 

“Good water pressure?”

Harry looks up from the strawberries, then shrugs. There’s an odd expression on Draco’s face, but Harry can’t quite put his finger on what it is, nor what the feeling he’s picking up from Draco is either. “Yes, no complaints.” A small smile creeps across Harry’s face. “You fishing for compliments on the plumbing, Draco?.” 

“And the body wash okay?” Draco adds, as if Harry hadn’t spoken. His attention is fully focused on buttering his piece of toast, right out to each corner. There’s the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, and cheeks are flushed. The dip of his throat looks pink too. 

“Yep,” Harry adds, his smile falling off his face in his confusion. He wonders if he’s posh enough to try a piece of grapefruit for his breakfast, or if perhaps go for cereal instead. Honestly, these spreads Draco puts on are too much decision for him. At home he’d be fine with just toast. “Very pepperminty.” Harry licks his lips and avoids eye contact, suddenly reminded of how viscerally he’d responded to the scent of the lotion in the shower. 

“Wonderful.” Draco sits back, takes a tiny bite at one corner of the toast he’s so meticulously spread. “And how was the wank?” he asks crisply. “That was also satisfactory, I take it?”

“Mm,” Harry nods, preoccupied with his muffin, then stops. “What,” he manages, heart hammering his chest suddenly enough to make his head spin. He frantically runs through his mental index of the events of the morning. Was he loud? Was the bathroom right next to Draco’s room and Harry simply hadn’t noticed how close? Blood rushes hotly to his face. 

“I assume that's what you were doing,” Draco goes on, setting his amply buttered and mildly bitten toast down. He watches Harry closely, and Harry stares back like a fox caught in Lumos light. “I'm quite sure that would account for what I...felt.” Draco licks his lips, the apples of his cheeks still tinging the same faint pink Harry had seen on him earlier. 

Understanding rushes over Harry, thumping loudly in his ears. 

“Oh my god.” Harry resists the urge to cover his face with his hands. “Oh my god, the stupid bond.”

“Quite.” Draco looks like he’s trying not to smile. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” Harry apologises emphatically. “I had no―they didn’t mention not to, I didn’t think that―”

“That tossing off would count as a heightened emotion?” Draco runs a hand through his hair, pushes it away from his forehead. It’s neatly brushed. Harry’s blushing so much he feels his eyeballs must be boiling in his head. “I wouldn’t have thought so either, but apparently you were having a rather good time.” 

“_Fuck_.” Harry drops his head into the crook of his bent elbow, in lieu of simply Apparating on the spot. “I cannot believe this.” 

“That's what I thought his morning, when I woke up to a raging erection that wasn’t entirely my own doing.” 

Harry groans into his elbow, half a laugh and the rest sheer embarrassment, and then sits upright once more. He straightens his glasses, then brushes his hands down his shirt. He slumps in his chair. “Merlin. Can I apologise enough for this? I am fucking..._mortified_.” 

Draco tilts his head, a smile still lingering around his lips. He folds his arms around his waist. The collar of his white vest hangs low around his collarbone and his grey silk dressing gown open. “Oh, it’s not as dire as all that, Potter.” 

Harry barks a laugh. “What, waking someone else up ‘cause you’re getting off is not that dire?”

Draco shrugs, crossing one leg over the other and letting his foot dangle. “I can think of worse things to wake up to.” 

Harry huffs out a breath, another half laugh of a sound. The heat is ebbing away from his face, thank god. “Okay, let me rephrase that, then. You think waking up to _me_ specifically, getting off in your head, is not that dire?” He shakes his head, still appalled with himself, and what Draco must think of him. He picks his tea up just for something to do with his hands. 

Draco’s quiet for a moment, and when Harry looks up he finds he's watching him, eyes narrowed and expression hawkish. “And let me repeat myself, Harry,” Draco starts, his voice low. “I can think of worse things to wake up to.” He leans forward to pick up his own tea cup. Harry stares at the shadows of his collarbone. 

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. “Oh.” He licks his lips, teacup raised half way to his mouth. “I. Um.” His eyes flit over Draco’s face, lingering at the cupid’s bow of his lips and the tilt of his smile, the narrowed interest in his eyes. His mind is racing, his pulse a rabbit flutter. “Let me know if it...happens again,” he says, before he’s even really made sense of what’s going on here. He just knows he needs to say something, to poke at this and see what happens. He feels like he’s unravelling a tapestry, pulling at a thread he’s been trying to get at for months and finally watching it come loose in a glorious shower of colour. 

Across the table, something flashes in Draco’s eyes. Harry feels a brief flash of emotion skitter along his spine in its wake. “I assure you, I will, thank you,” he says, his voice is soft and low, his eyes dark. “You’ll be sure to do the same for me, won’t you, Harry?” Draco runs his finger around the edge of his teacup. It comes away wet. “You’ll let me know, should you..._feel_ something from me?”

Harry takes a breath, and then another. He nods, never breaking eye contact with Draco. “Sure,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. “Of course,” he says again, more assuredly. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, his stomach turning giddy circles.  
“Wonderful, Harry,” Draco says quietly, turning his cup in his saucer. His breakfast sits abandoned in front of him as he looks into the milky brown liquid, his eyes smiling and teeth pulling at his lower lip. Anticipation settles heavily around them. 

Harry takes a deep gulp of his tea, then tries to return to his own breakfast. 

He barely manages a few mouthfuls around the swirling excitement in his belly.

✹✯✹

The day passes in a distracted blur for Harry.

He and Draco seem to dance around each other, pottering around this enormous house and acting as though nothing has changed between them, and ostensibly, it hasn't. On the outside, they're acting as they always do. Internally though, Harry's insides are squirming, his belly swooping every time he catches a whiff of Draco's cologne or feels the trickle of Draco's emotions run down his spine. It's maddening. It's brilliant. 

Ginny comes around at roughly 5pm with a Duffel full of clothes for Harry. She stays only briefly, the spike of Draco's jealousy a tangible thing that arrives on her heels. Harry's feels it settle in his lower back, an ugly throb, and an exciting one too. Ginny's no threat here, nothing for Draco to feel jealous of, and yet he does, and there's only one reason why―because he wants Harry, and she's had him before. By the time she leaves, Harry's more wound up than ever, arousal settling over his skin like moths wings. He wonders if Draco can feel it, and doesn't even try to pretend that he hopes otherwise. He wants Draco to feel as pent up as he does―to feel that he’s as much on the precipice of something happening as Harry is. 

After a light, tension-filled supper, Harry excuses himself to have a breather upstairs. Draco hasn't made any more pointed remarks about things he can feel from Harry, and Harry hasn't felt anything in return―beyond Draco’s jealousy which he's quite certain Draco would not find being made aware of very sexy at all. Quite the opposite, Harry feels sure. 

Upstairs in the guest room Harry's made his own, he ruffles through the clothes Ginny bought. Harry's shirt and work trousers are clean enough still, despite the two days of wear, but he's itching for a change. He pulls out a pair of well worn joggers and a grey vest, sparing a wistful glance at the pyjamas Draco lent him. There's no reason to wear them again, now that Harry has his own set with him. He dithers for a moment, slipping out of the trousers and into clean pants (heaven) and the joggers. At the last minute, he decides fuck it and tosses the vest aside. He pulls on the cream Henley top instead; if Draco comments, Harry will simply lie and say it was comfortable, not that the smell of Draco's clothes makes his cock thicken. No one needs to know about that. 

Harry sits on the foot of the bed, bare feet flexing on the floorboards, as he tries to decide if he's tired enough to try and sleep now or if he should perhaps venture downstairs for a book. He knows Draco's turning in early, having announced as much after finishing off his bowl of watercress soup. Harry's tired as well (neither of them got enough sleep) but he's also not used to having this much unfilled time of a weekend. The only outside time they've had today was taking Nettle for a quick walk around the nearby park, where she sniffed every blade of grass possible before finally having a wee. The three of them are feeling a little cooped up as a result. There's nothing for it, Harry knows, but he could really do with a long, exhausting run right now, to knock some of the overtired and fizzy energy out of him. 

Or really, another slow and uninterrupted wank would do it. Harry feels his cheeks growing warm at the memory of this morning, and the conversation that ensued. He runs a hand over the back of his neck, as if he can scrub the heat away. He feels a little unsteady with it, overheated as warmth pools quickly in his belly, creeps down his thighs. 

It takes him long moments before he realises it's not coming from him. 

There's no distinctive way Harry can pinpoint how he can tell the arousal he's feeling isn't his own, but rather playing through him. It crests in a slow arc, from the base of his spine up between his shoulder blades and down over his chest. Goosebumps prickle down his thighs as his nipples harden, stiff nubs pressing against the soft material of his top, and it's not as if Harry's body couldn't feel this all on its own. He knows it isn't, though, that the stirring of his prick between his legs is because someone else is touching themselves, their pleasure rippling back over Harry. That it's because _Draco_ is touching himself. 

It's a strange and electrifying sensation, made sharper by the knowledge that Draco knows Harry can feel this. Harry doesn't know, can't know, what Draco is doing, but he can feel it, and he spreads his legs a little wider. His cock isn't hard, but it would take only a few strokes to get him there. His thighs feel tight with pent up tension, and he leans back on his hands, chest open. He shuts his eyes, head tilted back towards the ceiling, as soft waves of arousal pulse through him like sweet molasses through his veins. It's so much softer than turning himself on, pressing his own buttons and feeling himself react. It's a glorious echo of Draco's own body reacting. Harry shuts his eyes, heart racing like he's miles above a Quidditch Pitch, the Snitch in tantalising reach of his questing fingers. He shifts his weight onto one hand, presses the fingers of the other against his belly instead. The moment stretches paper thin as Harry wonders what to do from here. 

He pulls his lower lip between his teeth, bites gently down on it as he toys with the waistband of his joggers. He could touch himself, now, let Draco know what he's doing to him. Harry knows this is an invitation―it can’t be anything but, given that Draco is aware what Harry will be feeling right now, having been on the other end of it this morning. Harry wants to lie back and let himself wallow in it, slip his hand between his legs. He wants more, though, more than just an echo. He could have it too, could get up and go to Draco's door. There's a curious passiveness coursing through him, however, a desire to stay put and make Draco come to him. Harry doesn't know why, but the sudden knowledge that yes Draco is interested in him, yes Draco does want him, feels satisfying beyond measure, and yet he still wants more. He wants Draco to say it to him, to come and get him―to mumble into Harry's skin what his body is whispering to Harry through the bond. He’ll sit here and wait for that.

The rap of knuckles against Harry's door is startling in the quiet of the room, and yet not surprising in the least. Harry doesn't move, except to turn his head to look at the closed door. His fingers still linger along the waistband of his joggers. 

"Come in," he calls out. His voice sounds rough. 

The door creaks gently, the faintest sound, as Draco pads into the room on bare feet. He’s shirtless; Harry can see him well enough by the light of his bedside lamp, casting them both into long shadows across the polished floors. Harry doesn’t move from his position at the end of his bed, leaning back on one hand and legs spread wide. Curiously, he doesn’t feel any embarrassment at Draco seeing him like this. If anything, he’d spread his legs wider if he could.

“Hi,” he mutters. His pulse feels like it’s thundering in his throat, but his voice steady. 

“Hi.” Draco steps into the room, then backwards again as he closes the door behind him. He leans against it. “Are you just sitting here in the dark, Potter?” he queries softly. 

He hands are behind his back, his pyjama bottoms slung low on his hips. Harry can see the jut of his hip bones, leading up to the smooth muscles of his abdomen. He smiles, lets his eyes linger obviously over the bare expanse of Draco’s stomach, his torso. They're criss crossed with the faintest white scars, thin lines that are too neat to be anything other than magical. Harry knows he should feel guilt at the sight of them, that he left those marks on Draco, but he doesn’t now. 

_Water under the bridge_, Draco had said, the first time Harry saw him with his shirt off. _Nothing worse than what I chose to have put on me_, he explained while gesturing at his left forearm and the pale serpentine scar etched along it. Harry’s own body is mottled with scars from the past, too, on his chest and hand and forehead. They make a nice pair, Harry supposes, with their blemished and tarnished bodies―all these marks that cover them. Harry wants to put his mouth over every single one on Draco’s skin. 

“It's not dark. The lamp’s on.” Harry inclines his head behind him, indicating the bedside. His fingers scrunch against the bed covers as his arms bears his weight behind him. “What were you doing?” he asks, moving his other hand away from his waistband and resting it back behind him. The change in position opens him up even more, his arms behind him and his legs parted. He watches the bob of Draco's Adam's apple as he swallows. He wants to lick at the dip of Draco's flushed throat. His mouth waters with it. 

"What do you think―" Draco cuts himself off and swallows again. He pushes himself away from the wall, hips first, and starts to walk over to Harry. Harry can see the shape of his cock through the material of Draco's pyjama bottoms, the heft of it as it punches out the dark satin. Harry shifts a little, his own prick semi-hard and pressing against the soft fleece of his joggers. He doesn't try to hide that he's watching Draco walk. There's no point in hiding it now, and no need to. Harry feels giddy with that knowledge. 

Draco stops in front of him, right between Harry's parted legs. Harry's thighs strain slightly, tension thick through his muscles. He curls his fingers into loose fists, his face tilted up meet Draco's eyes. The air between them feels charged, electric. It isn't magic, Harry knows this. It's just _them_. 

"You know what I was doing," Draco says after a moment. His voice is soft and low, his cheeks flushed pink. He's so pale, Harry thinks, that he never gets quite red when he blushes, just goes pink all over instead. Harry wants to press his thumbs against Draco's skin, watch the flush fade to white and then spring back again. "Don't you, Harry?" Draco leans closer, so close and yet not touching Harry at all. 

Harry blinks, the movement slow even as his heartbeat kicks up in his chest. He nods, arms straining behind him. Draco's mouth twists into a smile, his eyes dark and his expression hungry. 

"I thought so." He licks his lips, eyes flitting over Harry's face. Slowly, he raises his hands, long fingers reaching towards Harry. Harry holds his breath, then lets it out in an audible rush as Draco pulls his glasses off his face, gentle as anything. He folds them, the click of metal on metal so faint in the quiet, lamplit room. Harry watches his hands, the barely visible shake in them. Nervous, Harry thinks, his stomach somersaulting. He feels it inside himself too. Nervousness, excitement, anticipation. It buzzes through him in the echo chamber of this room, of the chemistry between them, with the bond exacerbating that what which was already there into cosmic proportions. 

Harry shivers at the feeling of Draco’s magic, so familiar in this new terrain, as Draco gently sends Harry's glasses sailing towards the bedside table. They land silently beside the lamp. Draco steps closer between Harry's parted legs. 

"Are we doing this, then, Harry?" His hair falls across his forehead as he raises his hands back to Harry's face, stopping just shy of touching him. Harry breathes in deeply, drinking in the sight of Draco, warm and real and right in front of Harry. Ready for him. 

"Better be." Harry's voice is a low rumble, his eyes wide and his whole body thrumming with anticipation. 

Draco smiles, the curve of his lips sweet and enticing, as he moves his left hand closer to Harry's face. 

"No touching," he whispers, his smile so beautific it makes Harry’s breath catch in his throat. "Isn't that the rule?” 

Harry breathes out harshly on a laugh. He swallows, every inch of him wanting to turn his face into Draco's cupped hand. "Never been great at rules," Harry croaks. 

Draco presses his lips together, then runs his tongue over then. "No." Draco's smile returns. "Nor I," he whispers, bringing his fingers to Harry's cheek. 

At first, Harry feels nothing, except the soft touch of Draco's fingertips against his skin. He wants to curl his face into the touch, but that's hardly surprising; he's wanted that for weeks. He isn't sure what he expected, perhaps a zap or a zing of something as soon as they touched, but he doesn't feel anything new―just the low rumble of excitement in his belly, the weighty hang of his cock between his legs, and now Draco's soft touch lingering over the stubble on his jaw. 

"Strange," Draco mumbles, flattening his palm over Harry's jaw and letting his fingers cup behind Harry's ear. "Do you feel…" 

Harry shakes his head, gently so as not to dislodge Draco's hand. "Nothing I didn't already feel." 

It seems like a bigger admission than it is, and Harry shuts his eyes against the fondness he sees on Draco's face. When he opens them, he looks down at Draco's wrist. He can see the pale blue lines of his veins, the ropey stretch of tendons. There's something vulnerable about this place, Harry thinks, where the skin seems so thin. He opens his mouth, lets his breath gust over Draco’s wrist. Draco’s fingers press more tightly against the soft hair at the back of Harry's head. 

"I thought I would―" Draco swallows, cutting himself off as Harry breathes over his skin again. Harry's face feels warm in all the places Draco is touching him. "I thought it would feel more― _oh_." 

Draco bends forwards, his words sliding off into a gasp as Harry presses his lips to the thin skin of Draco's inner wrist. 

"Yeah." Draco huffs a laugh. "That's what I was expecting it to feel like." 

Harry hums, kissing over Draco's skin again. He can't describe what he feels, beyond a heightened awareness of every place his lips touch, his mouth almost tingling. He feels starved for it, and he cups his own hand over the back of Draco's, shifting his hips restlessly as he brings Draco's wrist closer. Draco lets his wrist go lax, easier for Harry to manoeuvre. He rests his knee on the bed between Harry's parted legs, inches from his groin. Harry feels so aware of everywhere Draco is, feels like he could almost whine with it. 

He kisses up Draco's arm, lets his tongue slip out to taste him. Draco's breath hitches, and Harry does it again, his kisses turning wet and open-mouthed. He's never cared much for this before, never wanted to taste every bit of someone. Right now, he'd lick Draco's armpit if he would let him, and he feels no shame in it. There doesn't seem to be room for doubt when he can feel how turned on Draco is. It crashes over him like waves in the wake of Harry's mouth and tongue moving over his skin. Harry's own arms, the soft skin above his wrists, prickle with sensation too. It hardly seems real, but all of it is. Above him, Draco is breathing hard already. 

Harry stops at the crook of Draco's elbow, letting his lips rest against the tender skin there. It's another private, vulnerable place that Draco is letting Harry see, letting him get to. He swirls his tongue lightly, gasps in the echoed sensation against his own elbow. He sits up, both hands holding Draco's arm now, keeping it close to his mouth. The movement brings his groin closer to Draco's bent knee. 

"I like that," Draco murmurs, something almost dazed in his voice. 

Harry breathes in deeply, watches goosebumps rise along Draco's skin as he breathes out again. "I want to kiss you," he manages, the words mostly a breathless jumble against Draco's arm. Draco understands him well enough, though. 

"Yeah," he replies, voice rough as he brings both hands to cup Harry's head and tilt it back before he leans down, pressing his lips to Harry's. 

Harry isn't especially vocal in bed, or he never has been before. He isn't silent, far from it, but he's never wanted to moan into a kiss like he does now, or to whine like he does when Draco slips him tongue. Harry's forehead creases, his own fingers tangling in the soft strands of Draco's hair as he pulls Draco closer. Draco’s fingers move to his neck as he kisses Harry again, and again, until Harry's lips feel bruised with it. He clutches Draco's hair tighter. 

Draco pulls away to allow them both a breath, before tilting Harry's head to the side so he can kiss down his neck. Harry almost jumps at how good it feels, his hips stuttering forward. He wants to grab Draco's thigh and pull it against his own groin, but he'd have to stop petting at Draco's hair, and he can't bring himself to do that. He can't stop himself from shivering either as Draco kisses his way down his neck to his throat. He bites gently, pulling at the skin with his teeth and Harry feels Draco shudder with pleasure at almost the same time Harry does. 

"Do you feel that?" Harry gasps again, his hips shifting again against the bed. His cock is hard and full between his legs, tenting out his joggers. 

Draco nods, his breath coming in hitches in between the kisses he plants across Harry's collarbone down to the collar of Harry’s top. "Yeah," Draco murmurs, pulling at the hem of Harry's top, then leaning back so Harry can lift his arms. Draco drops it carelessly on the floor, leans back in quickly to kiss at Harry’s shoulder. "Everywhere I touch you." He kisses the top of Harry's bare chest, as far as he can reach while bent over him. Harry runs his fingers over Draco's shoulder blades. "I can _feel_ it, when I touch you." 

He looks up at Harry, kissing him again deeply before he drops to his knees. 

"Shit," Harry breathes out as Draco moved back in quickly, pressing his face against Harry's bare stomach and breathing in deeply. 

"This is ridiculous." Draco kisses Harry's belly, looking up at him again. "How much I want you right now." 

Harry threads one hands into Draco hair again, lets the longer stands at the top fall over his fingers. "Yeah?"

Draco groans against Harry's skin, planting kisses as he nods. His hair tickles at the base of Harry's sternum. His cock feels heavy and feverish between his legs, his head spinning with over stimulation. Draco's barely even touched him. 

"Just right now?" he asks, leaning back a lot as Draco's kisses slip lower. Harry's breathing is heavy around the wet sensation of Draco's lips. 

"Hmm?" Draco looks up briefly before looking at his own hands as he starts to undo the drawstring of Harry's joggers. His fingers bump against Harry's cock, large and insistent and in the way, and they both gasp. 

"Like." Harry licks his lips, unsure of what he wants to say, if he even needs to. He wants to hear it, though. "Is it just right now?" 

Draco pauses, having just slipped his fingers under the hem. His hair is tousled, a damp mess across his sweaty forehead. His cheeks are flushed, the pupils of his grey eyes blown large, almost eclipsing the irises. He's never looked more desirable to Harry, his chest heaving and his brow furrowed in confusion, and yet none of these feelings are new to Harry. He's old friends with this want, had it for company for a while now. He's suddenly desperate to know how it is for Draco, too. If this all he'll get, one night of experimentation for Draco, perhaps, of toying with the way the bond makes them feel, then Harry will take it. He'll take it with both hands, and treasure it. But he knows what he would prefer. 

"Is it the bond?" Harry asks, even though he doesn't think the bond works like that. "Is it just...only right now?" The words fall away, falling petal soft between them. 

Draco's frown smoothes out in understanding. He leans up, one hand cupping at the back of Harry's neck to pull him closer. 

"I thought you knew the answer to that?" he asks, the words a soft rush of breath against Harry's mouth. Harry swallows. They're too close for him to read Draco's expression, but Draco's fingers are soothing as they run over the nape of his neck. The desire pumping through them both hasn't abated. 

"Maybe." Harry presses his forehead against Draco's. "I think I'd like to hear it?" he admits. His voice is low with arousal, but he can hear the tremor in it. He knows Draco will hear it, too. 

"Ah," Draco nods in understanding, forehead rubbing against Harry's. He kisses him once more, before sitting back on his haunches. His hands return to the hem of Harry's joggers. "It's ridiculous," he says again, looking up at Harry through his lashes as he urges Harry to lift his hips. "How much I've wanted you," he slips the material down Harry's thighs, running his hands against Harry's skin in their wake. "These past months." They both gasp as Draco leans down and kisses the head of Harry's cock, pressing up against the material of his pants. "And these past weeks." Draco looks up at Harry again, as he pulls the waistband of Harry's briefs down too. Harry lifts his hips once more, his cock springing free. It juts out in front of them, right before Draco's slightly parted lips. Draco rests his hands on Harry's thighs. "And how much I want you now," he finishes, before ducking forwards and sealing his lips around the head of Harry's cock. 

"_Fuck_." Harry shuts his eyes, then lets them flicker open again. He reminds himself to breathe as Draco suckles at the head of his cock. He presses his tongue against the slit, toys with Harry's foreskin, his forehead scrunching up as he groans. Looking down, he can see Draco press the heel of his palm against the firm shape of his cock through his pyjama bottoms. Harry's lips are tingling again, his mouth filling with saliva. 

Draco pulls away, shaking his head in what looks like disbelief. "I can't believe this." He breathes out in a laugh, before resting his forehead against Harry's thigh. Even that feels maddening right now. 

"Which bit specifically?" Harry brushes Draco's messy fringe away from his face. 

"Any of it." Draco breathes in deeply through his nose. "All of this. But specifically, the fact that it feels like I'm sucking my own prick." 

Harry swallows down the sound he wants to make at that. "It feels like that?" 

"Mm." Draco kisses the sensitive skin high on the inside of Harry's thigh. "Not exactly the same, but. I feel it. It makes me wonder." Draco turns his face again, all but rubbing it against Harry's skin. "Have you ever been fingered?" 

Harry's breath catches on a surprised laugh. "Um. Yeah." He licks his lips as he looks down at Draco's face. Harry feels heat throb through him, his balls tighten, as Draco's smile turns wicked. 

"And did you like it?" Draco flicks his tongue out, sliding it up against the length of Harry's cock. He flattens his tongue as he reaches the head, slipping his mouth back over it and sucking briefly before pulling off again just as quickly. 

"Yeah," Harry groans as Draco presses another lingering kiss against the head. "I liked it." 

Draco moans, as affected as Harry, if not more so. He pulls back and flicks his head to the side, shaking his hair away from his eyes. Harry's mouth feels strange and empty. He sucks on his lower lip to try and sate the feeling. 

"I want to." Draco presses his hand against Harry's sternum, lets it slide down his chest. A duel shudder runs through them as Draco pinches at Harry's nipple. "Fuck. Can I, Harry?" 

"Yeah," Harry says again, unable to conjure up something more eloquent. He wants that, enough to make his stomach tense and his belly clench at just the thought of it. He can feel how much Draco wants to do it, too. 

"Lie back." Draco pushes at Harry's stomach, Harry goes with it, flopping backwards against the bed as if boneless. "Leg up, too." Harry lets Draco lift his right leg, resting his heel against the bed. Like this, Harry feels opened up, exposed, and not a little bit ridiculous, arse up and with Draco's face so close. It makes everything feel sharper, somehow, the lack of control over what's happening, letting someone else call the shots. 

Draco's voice is low as he murmurs an _Accio_. His wand skitters along the wooden floor, under the crack of the door, and into Draco's palm. Harry can't see what's happening, only hear it. _I'm not in control of this_, he thinks, and his cock twitches against his belly. He's amazed by how much he likes that thought. He's shifts against the bed covers, restless and achingly turned on. Draco runs a comforting hand over Harry's flank. 

"Normally, I would do this the old-fashioned way." Draco sucks in a breath, kissing the knob of Harry's ankle. "Use real lube rather than conjured, but." He laughs self-deprecatingly. "I'm feeling rather pressed for time." 

"Oh?" Harry stares up at the ceiling, one hand flat across his stomach, little finger almost brushing his own cock. "Conjured's fine with me, by the way." Harry swallows, then brings his other arm to rest up above his head. "Any lube is fine. Spit's fine. Go in dry, even, if you like." 

Draco snorts a startled laugh. He pinches the back of Harry's thigh quickly, making Harry jump. "It's not as dire as that, Potter." He kisses the reddened skin where his fingers had been. 

"I'm just saying." Harry grins up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling. There a damp patch low on his belly, precome leaking from his cock. He doesn't want to touch himself yet, though, for fear that this will be over too quickly as it is. "I'm feeling pretty easy for it right now." 

"Mm." Draco splays his hands across Harry's hips. Unexpectedly, he pulls Harry closer to the edge of the bed, until his arse is almost hanging off it. "Alright then." He plants a kiss on Harry's arse cheek, then moves to the other and does the same. Harry squirms, trying not to disrupt him but wanting to get closer all the same. 

"Fuck." Harry swallows hard as he feels the tingle of Draco's magic over his skin, and inside him, too, as Draco murmurs a quick spell. 

"Sorry," Draco places an apologetic kiss at Harry's perineum. "Cleaning charm's are always so invasive." 

"It's fine. I like it." Harry scrubs a hand over his cheek. He clenches his arse experimentally. 

Draco hums, muttering another spell sotto voce. "I can tell." He kisses at Harry's thigh again, lips moving to the base of Harry's cock. Harry jerks, surprised by the feel of it. He jerks again, his entire body on edge, as Draco sucks one of his balls into his mouth. He release it with an audible, wet sound and a low sigh, rubbing the knuckles of his cupped fingers over Harry's perineum. 

"You might need to relax." Draco shuffles forward on his knees, kissing the base of Harry's cock again.

"I'm fine. Do it." Harry arches his spine. 

"I know a relaxing―" 

"Draco," Harry laughs, bordering on desperate, "I told you. I'm easy for it." 

Draco moves his knuckles closer to Harry's hole. He extends one wet finger out, rubs it over the puckered flesh. "I'd like this to be good for you," Draco says after a moment, surprisingly earnest. 

Harry struggles up onto his elbows so he can look down at Draco's face. The apples of Draco’s cheeks are pink as ever, framed by Harry's thighs. Harry reaches out and runs his hand through Draco's hair, down his cheek. It's soppy, and ridiculous, the way Harry feels right now. He grins down at Draco, his smile lopsided and sex-drunk, then shrugs as best he can while leaning back on one elbow and with one leg pretezelled up against the bed. He must look like a complete knob. 

"I mean." Harry runs his finger across Draco's cheek, down to his lips. "It's not as if I'll be able to hide it if I don't like it." He plucks playfully at Draco's full lower lip as if strumming a guitar string, watching Draco's mouth curve into a smile in its wake. 

"Well, when you put it like that." Draco moves his glistening fingers closer, slick with lubricant. Harry wants to spread his legs wider, open his hips even further, but this is it. He holds his breath, then lets it out slowly, keeping his breathing even and trying to relax his body as much as he can. Draco looks at him as he presses his middle finger inside, pushing past the resistance at Harry's rim. Even though Draco's fingertip is inching inside him now, the eye contact somehow feels more intimate to Harry. He clenches his free hand in the bed sheets, his other resting on Draco's bare shoulder. 

"Okay?" asks Draco, pulling his finger out slowly and then pushing back in, this time to the second knuckle. Harry nods, still keeping eye contact with Draco, who rises up up off his haunches and higher onto his knees. He sets up a slow rhythm, his expression almost wondering. Harry can only imagine what he's feeling, if Draco's own arse is clenching down around nothing when Harry himself tightens against the clever, perfect intrusion of Draco's finger. He already wants more―more fingers, faster, everything. Distantly, Harry is aware that his right hand feels overly warm, and fidgety. His mouth feels empty again, his skin prickly; his cock is a hot line against his belly when it touches his skin.

"Add another," he murmurs. His voice sounds breathy and strange to his own ears. Draco is alternating between looking at Harry's face, and watching the way his finger slips inside Harry as he twists it. He shifts his weight from knee to knee, distracted by what he's doing and breathing hard at what he's feeling. 

"Already?" 

"Yeah." 

Draco hums. "So greedy, Potter," he says, almost admiringly. He pulls his finger out entirely then presses his index finger up against his middle. He circles them both around Harry’s rim. "You really do like this, don't you?" He presses forward with both fingers. 

Harry drops his head to one shoulder with a low moan. "Yep," he manages, before giving up and letting himself fall backwards against the bed. Like this, the angle is better, as his body accommodates the stretch of both of Draco's long fingers. He maybe should have gone slower, but he likes the slight burn of it, the way Draco isn't letting up and trusts Harry to know what he likes. And he _does_ like this. 

"Even more than I do, I think," Draco mutters again in that almost admiring tone. It's as if he's talking to himself, can't hold it in. "I can feel it, what this is like for you."

"Yeah." Harry means to say more, something blithe or a joke, but he's already rocking his hips back against Draco's fingers, taking them in deeper. Draco's hand feels like a brand against the back of Harry's thigh as he leans against it, holding Harry open for him. 

"Fuck, Harry." 

"_Yeah_," Harry gasps out as Draco moves his hand faster, fucking him on his fingers. Harry stomach tenses, his cock leaking against it as he digs his heel into the bed, the toes of his other foot pressing against the floorboards. 

He gasps again, ending in a low, shocked groan, when Draco leans forward, releasing Harry's thigh and grasping Harry's prick. He runs his loose fist up and down it once, and then again, before tipping forwards and wrapping his lips around the head. 

"Oh, fu―" Harry breaks off into a moan, head tipping back against the bed. His hips circle between wanting to press up into Draco mouth and to bear down against his long fingers as Draco moves them inside him. He feels Draco's answering groan against his cock. 

Draco doesn't tease this time, moving his lips down over Harry's prick. His mouth is hot, perfect, and Harry's own mouth waters. He laughs, breathless, when he realises what it is he's feeling―Draco's mouth between his own legs, mirrored for Harry. Harry writhes against the bed, sucking on his own tongue. He nearly chokes on it when Draco's fingers brush his prostate. 

"Oh shit, there, there," he babbles. Draco hums, pulling off Harry's cock for a moment to catch his breath. He brushes the same spot again, wanking Harry's prick with his free hand, the way slicked with Draco's spit. "Oh, _fuck_," Harry groans as Draco keeps his fingers at that spot, curling them up towards the ceiling in a beckoning motion. He pulls them out again after a moment, starting a steady rhythm and keeping Harry on the edge. "Fuck, that's―" Harry doesn't finish, gasping at the ceiling instead.

"Yeah," Draco groans his response, fucking Harry on his fingers and pulling Harry off with his other hand. "God, this feels so good." Draco shakes his fringe out of his eyes again, a losing battle giving his damp forehead. He laughs, breathlessly. "And so weird."

"Shit, yes, like that." Harry can barely breathe around how good it feels when Draco holds his fingers in place again, curling them up to massage his prostate once more. Heat pools at the base of Harry's spine and between his hips as Draco moves his fingers back and forth in small increments, bumping up against the bundle of nerves inside Harry again and again. Harry struggles to stay still, his mind growing fuzzy at the edge. All of his attention is focussed on the growing heat between his hips, the feels of Draco's fingers around his cock and inside him as Draco works him over. 

Draco keens, resting his forehead against the inside of Harry's thigh. "You're close, Harry." It's not a question. 

Harry can barely manage a coherent reply, back arching and mouth open as he pants.

"Shit, I have to―I'm going to―" Draco suddenly pulls the hand on Harry's cock away, replacing it with his mouth. He's out of breath, in no better state than Harry as he slips his now free hand between his own legs. He groans, deep and relieved, around Harry's cock. Harry shuts his eyes, his mind whiting out as Draco sucks at the head of his cock as best he can while gasping at the reverberating pleasure between them himself. His fingers remain sure as they massage up against Harry's prostate. Harry's mouth falls open on a silent gasp. 

He means to warn Draco, but he barely gets a chance as his balls tighten, and his orgasm barrels towards him like a speeding train. His already laboured breathing turns to loud gasps and cut off sounds as he shifts against the bed, shoulder pressing down into the mattress and toes flexing. His mouth feels too empty, orgasm skittering along his skin but just out of reach until he shoves two of his fingers in there, then sucks on them hard. 

Draco's answering moan is muffled against Harry's cock, but no less frantic because of it. Harry sucks on the pads of his own fingers, digging the heel of his raised leg into the mattress as his thighs begin to tremble a shudder that runs up his sides, over his chest and up to his scalp. He drags a ragged breath in around his fingers, his eyes slamming shut as his cock twitches. He feels himself start to come. 

Draco makes a cut off, startled sound that deepens out into a low groan as Harry shoots inside his mouth. He swallows as best he can, breathing harshly through his nose and with his eyes shut, his brow furrowed in concentration as he works his own cock over. Harry can feel it, the rush of Draco's pleasure crashing into the back of Harry's, making what feels like an endless wave. Harry presses the heels of his hands against his eyes as Draco lets Harry's cock slip from his lips. Draco chokes down a breath, nuzzling against the crease of Harry's thigh as he comes with a low, muffled sound. Harry's spent cock twitches, overstimulated and almost sore as he feels Draco's orgasm course through him. His head spins. 

Draco's fingers inside him suddenly feel like too much, but Harry rides it out, letting Draco finish before he tries to shift away. There's nowhere for him to go, really, when they're this close and Harry's half off the bed and uncoordinated to boot, so all he manages to do is jostle Draco slightly. Harry gives up, lies still and tries to catch his breath. Draco’s own breathing is coming out in a damp, uneven rush against the crease of Harry’s thigh. 

Another moment passes before Draco breathes in deeply through his nose. “Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his fingers free from Harry slowly, then wiping his hand against his pyjama bottoms. Harry makes a face; it doesn’t hurt, but the sensation is strange, a little uncomfortable now he’s come. He clenches down on nothing, and almost misses Draco’s fingers. 

Draco kisses the inside of Harry’s thigh as he eases Harry’s leg down from the bed. Harry struggles up onto his elbow, his arms wobbly and his breathing still uneven. He’s sure his face and chest must be a hectic red. Sat between his legs, Draco looks no better, his usually neat hair wild and messy across his forehead and his chest mottled a blotchy pink from exertion. Harry stares down at him for long moments, drinking him in. He wants to save this memory, preserve it in his mind and keep it as pristine as if it were in a pensieve. 

Draco rests his hands over the tops of Harry’s thighs, then lays his cheek against it, watching Harry back with the same tired, fond expression Harry’s sure is on his own face. The lamplight casts shadows in the dips of Draco’s cheeks, under his collarbone and ribs. It should be haunting, perhaps, but his face looks so deeply satisfied, so calm. Harry can’t look away. 

“I’m ruining the sheets,” he says after a moment, shifting his arse slightly against the bed to make his point. Draco’s face splits into a slow and sated smile. He shrugs, a languid move. 

“I’ve ruined my pants,” Draco replies, shamelessly. His voice comes out rough. “Both inside and out.” He trails his index finger over the sensitive side of Harry’s knee, down to his ankle. He grips Harry’s ankle lightly, then squeezes. Harry wonders if Draco can feel that, too, through the bond, or if it’s simmered down now that both of their feelings aren’t at such a fever pitch. 

Harry sighs. “My wand is around here somewhere.” Harry flops a hand behind him, starts to lean up to get it. “I can try and cast a cleaning…” 

Draco shakes his head. “Leave it.” Draco pushes himself upright, then leans his weight fully onto Harry’s thighs as he stands. He’s right; his pyjama bottoms are a mess of lube and drying come, a damp patch at Draco’s groin where he came. He holds his hands out for Harry to take them. “Let’s just move beds, deal with this in the morning.” He pulls Harry upright against him. “And Nettle won’t sleep without me in there with her,” he adds, almost shyly. 

“Will she mind me being in there, too?” asks Harry. He feels a little shaky on his feet as he steps over his discarded joggers. He suddenly feels aware of his nakedness, too, of the hang of his soft cock, the slick lube between his cheeks. Draco steps backwards, pulling away from Harry but not letting go of one of Harry's hands. He hooks his index and middle fingers around Harry’s, his arm outstretched as he makes to leave. Harry hesitates, thinking he should grab something to wear to sleep in, but in the end he lets Draco pull him towards the door. He’ll sleep naked, if he must. He already feels dead on his feet, the doped feeling that sex brings him settling over him. 

Draco’s room is only a door or so down from Harry’s, a short walk during which Draco doesn’t let go of Harry’s fingers, pulling him along. Draco’s room is darker than the guest room he put Harry in, and Harry makes a surprised noise when he steps onto plush carpet.

“What?” Draco asks, turning around to look at Harry. In the corner, Nettle wags her tail at them sleepily in her bed, before setting her chin back down. The thump of her tail dies down to nothing as she slips back into a doze. Harry apologises to her mentally for standing in her room, tackle out, but she doesn’t seem fussed. When he turns back to Draco, it’s to catch the end of Draco stripping off himself, tossing his soiled pyjama bottoms towards the washing basket by the door of the ensuite bathroom. 

Harry had meant to make a comment on the fact that Draco’s guestrooms have cold floorboards while he himself is rolling around on thick pile carpets, but the thought wisps away from his mind as he watches Draco. Harry realises, with a clench of his belly, that this is the first time he’s seen Draco naked. He lets his eyes trail down over Draco’s chest, past the faint scars he’s seen before and along the trail of dark blond hair low on his belly that leads to the thatch of hair between his legs. His cock looks heavy, large even while soft. He’s slim, still, his body lean and wiry like Harry expected. Harry feels a dull throb of arousal as he looks him over. When he returns his eyes to Draco’s face, he’s watching Harry back, faint amusement in his eyes and his wand in his hand. Before Harry can speak, Draco casts a soft cleaning charm over them both. Harry feels his skin prickle up into goosebumps in its wake, the pleasant tingle of the charm scouring him clean, like his body’s been dipped in gentle toothpaste. Draco sets his wand down on the chestnut bedside table, beneath a lamp that matches the one in Harry’s room. 

“Two things,” Draco announces as he pulls back the covers. “I sleep on the left, if you hadn’t figured that out already.” 

“Considering that’s the side you’re standing on, yeah, I had got to that conclusion myself.” 

“Smart lad.” Draco kneels onto the bed, still naked. “I’m sure you can deduce the second thing as well, then.” He rubs his eye, a habit of his when tired, and brushes his hair back away from his face. 

“You sleep naked,” Harry answers, stepping closer. He doesn’t usually, himself, but Draco hasn't offered him more night clothes, seeming to throw hospitality out the window the more tired he gets. Harry decides he’ll sleep naked tonight, too. 

He slips under the sheets as Draco flicks the lamp off with a wave of his hand. Harry sighs at the feeling of soft, clean bed covers against his bare skin. He’s not sure if Draco’s had them recently laundered, or if it’s just the fact that Harry’s always found being in someone else's bed to be an exciting experience, but they feel cool and crisp against his warm skin. He stretches his legs out as he lies on his back, rolling his shoulders to try and settle himself to sleep. Beside him, Draco faces the wall, his back to Harry. Harry stares at the sharp silhouette of Draco’s shoulder in the dark, wanting to curl up behind him, but not quite sure of how it would be received. 

“C’mere,” Draco says abruptly, reaching back with one hand to thwap at Harry’s chest. Harry laughs softly, confused, as Draco pulls him up behind him. “Third thing,” Draco murmurs, sounding more than half-asleep already. “I like a cuddle.” 

Harry huffs, scooting closer on the sheets so he can fit his body behind Draco. Just as before, he doesn’t feel any magnificent surge when their bodies touch. He does feel comforted, though, warm at all the places they touch―his knees tucked in the backs of Draco’s, his chest against the back of Draco’s shoulders, his flaccid prick pressed against Draco’s arse. It’s intimate, in a way that Harry can’t separate from the way the bond felt, and the way he just usually feels about Draco. 

He’s still puzzling it out, in a languid way, when his eyelids begin to droop, sleep pulling his mind away. He lets it go; he decides he doesn't need to know. Whatever it is, it’s real, and it’s coming from him. That’s enough. 

Harry falls asleep to the memory of Draco’s skin against his lips, and the sound of Draco’s soft breathing as he sleeps.

✹✯✹

For the second morning in a row, Harry wakes in a bed that is not his own, in a room in Draco’s house.

He stretches out, blinking his eyes open slowly. The blankets are a warm cocoon around him, and the temptation to let himself go back to sleep is strong. Before he can slip off again, the bed dips beside him. A warm hand lands at his shoulder, surprising Harry enough to make him somewhat alert. He rolls over onto his back. Draco’s hand is dislodged by the motion. 

“Boo.” Draco lips quirk into a half-smile as he places his hand into his lap. He’s shirtless still, wearing the same silk dressing gown from the previous morning hanging open. He’s slipped on a pair of black boxer briefs, too. 

“Thought you slept naked,” Harry mumbles, still bleary with sleep. 

Draco tilts his head to the side. The movement reminds Harry of a curious bird. “I’m not sleeping now,” answers Draco simply. He taps a piece of rolled up parchment against his left leg, before crossing it over his right. He resumes the tapping once more. “How did you sleep?”

“Mmm. Fine, I think.” Harry frowns. “You? What time is it, it feels…early.” Harry waves a hand to indicate how he feels about that, which is essentially, vague and half-asleep. He thinks he communicates this to Draco well enough, based on his amused expression. 

“Check the time yourself, you lazy sod. There’s a clock on the wall just there.” Draco raises his eyebrows and nods, pointing in the direction of the clock with the rolled up parchment. 

“Can’t see that far without my glasses. They’re still in the other room.” Harry resists the urge to stick out his tongue and say _so there_. He settles for a smug grin, instead. It grows smugger when Draco rolls his eyes at him. 

“Poor Potter. It’s a quarter past seven, then, not that early. And you’re still a lazy sod.” 

Harry hums his acknowledgement, shifting up into a sitting position. Now that he’s fully awake, he feels a bit of a tit, lying on his back while Draco is fully seated. “Why’re you up?” Harry queries, rubbing his hand over the back of his head. “You’re not known for being an early riser.” 

Rather than throw a jab back to Harry, as he would normally do when Harry points out that Draco likes a lie in, Draco stays quiet instead. After a moment, he extends the parchment he’s holding out towards Harry. “We’ve had an owl.” 

“Oh?” Harry’s eyebrows raise in surprise. “Have we?”

“Mmm. Read it.” Draco watches as Harry unfolds the parchment scroll, his expression curious more than apprehensive. That settles the spike of worry in Harry’s gut a little. 

He scans across the words in front of him as well as he can without his glasses, trying to absorb the blur of medical jargon. He can’t understand half of it, but he can get the gist well enough. 

“Potion’s ready,” Draco supplies softly after Harry’s stared at the page for a while longer. Harry nods, letting go off the end of the scroll and letting it coil back into a roll. 

“Seem so, yeah.” He hands the scroll back to Draco. “Right, well.” Harry suddenly isn’t sure what to do with his hands. He feels abruptly aware of his nakedness, that he’s starkers in Draco’s bed. The events of the past night come rushing at him. “Guess we’d better head in,” he adds after a moment longer in which Draco simply stares at him. Harry swallows, and tries to relax around the tension he can feel building in his shoulders. 

“We had sex last night,” Draco states abruptly. The bluntness of it startles a laugh out of Harry. 

“Um. Yeah, we definitely did.” Harry can feel his face growing hot as he shifts against the sheets. 

“It was good.” Draco’s voice is softer his time, but no less sure. It’s odd how settling Harry finds that. There was a time when even the sound of Draco’s voice could piss Harry off, set his nerves on edge. It’s quite the opposite now. 

“Yeah, it was,” agrees Harry, and he means it. 

Draco nods, and then looks away. “I’d like to ask―” Draco licks his lips, a nervous gesture. “Before we go in,” he starts again. “I’d like to ask if this ends here. In this bed, with the bond.” He turns back to Harry. 

Harry’s quiet a beat, momentarily taken aback by Draco’s directness. “Not if you don’t want it to. I mean.” Harry clears his throat, deciding to repay Draco’s directness in kind. “I don’t want it to end here.” 

Draco nods, shoulders slumping as he relaxes. “Good,” he says quietly, allowing himself a brief flash of a smile, before turning back to meet Harry’s eyes. “That’s a fucking relief.”

Harry laughs, giddy and relieved too. He bumps his knee, still hidden under the covers, against Draco’s back, then leaves it there. He’s itching for a point of contact. “Were you worried I’d say no?”

“I hadn’t let myself get that far ahead, to be honest,” Draco admits. 

Harry laughs again, quieter this time. He feels Draco lean back a little against his knee. “So we’re doing this, then?” Harry lets his smile turk cheeky. “Even if the sex is shit without the bond?” 

Draco shrugs, one shoulder lifting and dropping with easy confidence. “Then I'll show you how to get better.” 

Harry raises his eyebrows, huffing in faux indignance. “Oh, it’s me who’ll be shit at sex, will it?” 

“I hardly anticipate that, based on last night.” Draco twists his mouth, as if deciding what to say next. “And based on the fact that I'd still fancy you even if you had no idea what you were doing in bed,” he confesses.

Harry's smile grows so large he feels it pinch in his cheeks. “I like hearing that,” he confesses softly in reply. 

“I know,” Draco responds. He looks down at Harry's stomach, then places his palm against Harry's belly, just above where the sheets cover his lap. Harry revels in the warmth of it. “I would have said it sooner, you know. Done this sooner,” Draco says quietly. “Before last night. Before the comet. I was never sure, though, if you wanted that.” His fingers trace a light pattern against Harry's bare skin. 

Harry frowns. “Really?” Draco nods, and Harry goes on. “I thought maybe I was obvious.” 

This time, Draco shakes his head. “You can be hard to read, really. Far from obvious.” He looks up at Harry through his lashes. “Did you not suspect about me, then?” Draco asks, batting the question back at Harry. 

“I thought….” Harry frowns. “Sometimes I did. But mostly I just wasn’t sure if I was seeing what was there, or just what...I wanted to see.” 

“Even when I was flirting with you?”

Harry sputters a laugh, surprised. “When’ve you been flirting with me?” he counters. 

Draco chuckles. “See, I rather thought _that_ was obvious.” He rests his thumb just under Harry’ navel. “Still so much to learn about me, Potter,” he teases, a wicked slant to his lips and in his eyes. 

"Yeah, I guess so." Harry finds himself oddly excited by the prospect―that there’s still more of Draco to know. 

"Well. Perhaps for now, let's start with," Draco stands again, "showering?" 

“I know how to shower,” Harry jokes. 

“Not with me, you don't.” Draco bends to kiss the corner of Harry's mouth, the faintest press of his lips. Harry sighs into it, curling his hand around the back of Draco's head to bring him closer. 

“Let’s shower,” Draco kisses Harry on the lips this time, “and then go and take this wretched potion,” another kiss, “and then see what sex is like without any bonds involved. I’d like to see what it’s like to have you inside me without also having you inside my head,” he whispers against Harry’s lips. 

Harry laughs into it, before leaning in to kiss Draco once more. 

“Whatever you want, Malfoy”

✹✯✹

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on [tumblr](https://shiftylinguini.tumblr.com/) if you likeeeeee


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